CHAPTER 4 The Game We Shouldn’t Be Playing
For four days, I did not text Mason Cole.
This was an achievement.
A mature, responsible, deeply reasonable achievement.
It also required more self-control than I cared to admit.
His last message remained near the top of my phone.
**And you still don’t hate me.**
I had read it approximately thirty times.
Not because I cared.
Obviously.
I read it because I was trying to understand how one sentence could be so arrogant and so annoyingly accurate at the same time.
I could have answered.
I didn’t.
Mason could have texted again.
He didn’t.
And somehow his silence irritated me more than another message would have.
By the fourth day, I had almost convinced myself the lodge had been a strange interruption in reality.
A snowstorm.
A dead car.
A shared room.
A fireplace.
An almost-kiss.
That was all.
Then Noah called.
“Are you coming tonight?”
I was standing in my studio reviewing photographs from a restaurant campaign.
“To what?”
There was silence.
Then my brother said, “My game.”
“Oh.”
“Nice.”
“I knew you had a game.”
“You forgot.”
“I’ve had work.”
“Seattle versus Portland.”
My hand stopped on the mouse.
Of course.
Portland.
Mason.
I stared at the photograph on my computer without seeing it.
“What time?”
“Seven thirty.”
“I might be late.”
“You’re never late.”
“That’s because you usually don’t monitor my attendance like a controlling parent.”
“Emma.”
“What?”
Another pause.
Then Noah’s voice changed.
“Have you talked to him?”
I immediately knew who he meant.
“Who?”
“Don’t.”
I smiled despite myself.
“Mason?”
“Yes. Mason.”
“No.”
That part was technically true.
“Has he contacted you?”
I hesitated.
Noah caught it immediately.
“What did he say?”
“Nothing important.”
“Emma.”
“He told me I left a battery in his car.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
Another technical truth.
“Did you get it back?”
“No.”
“Good.”
I frowned.
“Why is that good?”
“Because you don’t need a reason to see him.”
I leaned back in my chair.
“You know, people usually become more subtle when they’re trying to control someone.”
“I’m trying to keep my sister from walking into a disaster.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“I know him.”
“You know one version of him.”
The words left my mouth before I could stop them.
Silence.
Noah’s tone cooled.
“And what version do you know?”
I closed my eyes.
Wrong direction.
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“It sounded pretty clear.”
“I spent one night trapped in a lodge with him. We talked.”
“You barely know him.”
“Yes.”
“Then act like it.”
I stood.
“I have to work.”
“Emma.”
“I’ll see you tonight.”
I ended the call.
For several seconds, I stared at my phone.
Then it buzzed.
A new message.
Mason.
My stomach reacted before my brain did.
**Heard Seattle has terrible ice.**
I smiled.
I hated that I smiled.
**Interesting. I heard Portland has terrible players.**
The typing bubble appeared immediately.
**That almost hurt.**
I stared at the screen.
Then:
**Coming tonight?**
My thumb hovered.
This was easy.
I could say no.
I could ignore him.
I could maintain the perfectly sensible distance Noah desperately wanted.
Instead, I typed:
**Maybe.**
His answer came five seconds later.
**Wear the boots.**
I laughed out loud.
My assistant, Claire, looked up from across the studio.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“You’re smiling at your phone.”
“I am not.”
“You definitely are.”
“It’s work.”
“Work makes you look like you want to murder people.”
“That is unfair.”
“It’s extremely fair.”
I locked my phone.
Claire smiled.
“Man?”
“No.”
“That answer means man.”
“There is no man.”
“Forbidden man?”
My eyes snapped toward her.
She laughed.
“Oh my God. There is.”
“No.”
“You just looked terrified.”
“I looked annoyed.”
“Who is he?”
“Nobody.”
“Married?”
“No.”
“Client?”
“No.”
“Famous?”
I said nothing.
Claire slowly lowered her laptop.
“Emma.”
“No.”
“Holy shit.”
“Stop.”
“Who?”
“I said nobody.”
She stared at me for three seconds.
Then her eyes widened.
“No.”
I pointed at her.
“Whatever you’re thinking, no.”
“It’s a hockey player.”
“How did you—”
“You have exactly one famous-person-adjacent circle.”
“That proves nothing.”
“Is it one of Noah’s teammates?”
“No.”
Claire froze.
Then she whispered, “Oh my God.”
“Please stop saying that.”
“It’s Mason Cole.”
My silence betrayed me.
Claire pressed both hands to her face.
“No.”
“Nothing happened.”
“You’re sleeping with Mason Cole?”
“I literally just said nothing happened.”
“So you want something to happen.”
“Claire.”
She stood.
“This is incredible.”
“It is not incredible.”
“It is objectively incredible.”
“My brother hates him.”
“I’m aware. The entire sports internet is aware.”
“That is exactly why this is a bad idea.”
Claire walked around the desk.
“So why are you smiling?”
I hated reasonable people.
“I’m not.”
She picked up my phone.
I snatched it away.
“Absolutely not.”
Her grin widened.
“You like him.”
“No.”
“You like him.”
“I find him irritating.”
“That’s worse.”
“How is that worse?”
“Because you don’t look bored.”
I stared at her.
Claire knew me too well.
That was the problem with keeping the same best friend through college, bad relationships, career disasters, and family drama.
She knew the difference between attraction and interest.
Attraction was easy.
Interest was dangerous.
“I barely know him,” I said.
“Then get to know him.”
“Noah would kill me.”
“You’re twenty-five.”
“That doesn’t make murder less illegal.”
Claire laughed.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
She leaned against the desk.
“You don’t have to marry the guy. Have a conversation.”
“We already did.”
“And?”
I thought about Mason beside the fireplace.
Lily.
His father.
His hand over mine.
His mouth almost touching mine.
“Complicated.”
Claire’s expression softened.
“That sounds promising.”
“That sounds disastrous.”
“Sometimes same thing.”
I hated her too.
At six forty-five, I arrived at the arena wearing black jeans, a cream sweater, and absolutely normal flat boots.
I refused to give Mason the satisfaction.
Noah had left my usual ticket at the family entrance.
Five rows behind the bench.
Again.
I considered changing seats.
I didn’t.
By warm-ups, the arena was nearly full.
Seattle jerseys dominated the crowd, dark blue and silver stretching through the stands. Music shook the building.
Then Portland came onto the ice.
My attention found number seventeen immediately.
That was annoying.
Mason moved differently on skates.
I had noticed it before, but now I watched intentionally.
Off the ice, he carried himself with lazy confidence.
On it, everything sharpened.
Every movement had purpose.
Power.
Speed.
Control.
He took a pass near center ice and fired a shot into the top corner of the net.
The puck hit with a clean snap.
A few Portland fans cheered.
Mason circled back.
Then he looked toward my section.
Straight at me.
Impossible.
There were thousands of people.
He couldn’t—
His mouth curved.
He could.
I folded my arms.
He pointed his stick toward my feet.
My boots.
I stared at him.
Mason laughed.
A teammate skated past and said something.
Mason answered without looking away from me.
My face heated.
Ridiculous.
Absolutely ridiculous.
I mouthed, “Idiot.”
His smile widened.
Then Noah skated between us.
Not intentionally.
At least, I hoped not.
Mason’s expression changed instantly.
The smile disappeared.
Noah looked toward the stands.
Saw me.
Then glanced at Mason.
Something in his posture stiffened.
Perfect.
Ten minutes into the first period, Mason scored.
Of course he did.
Portland recovered the puck behind Seattle’s net.
A pass went across the crease.
Mason appeared from nowhere and buried it before the goalie could move.
The Portland bench exploded.
I stayed very still.
No clapping.
No reaction.
Loyal sister.
Excellent.
Mason skated toward center ice.
His teammates surrounded him.
Then he looked at me.
One glance.
That was all.
But something in his expression said:
Saw that.
I rolled my eyes.
Noah scored six minutes later.
I stood with the rest of the arena.
The crowd screamed his name.
He pointed toward our section as he passed the bench.
I cheered harder.
Mason saw that too.
Good.
Maybe it would remind everyone involved exactly where my loyalties belonged.
The first period ended tied.
The second became violent.
Noah hit Mason hard against the boards.
Clean hit.
Mason retaliated two shifts later.
Also technically clean.
By the third, the crowd was waiting for one of them to explode.
So was I.
It happened with four minutes left.
Mason stole the puck in Seattle’s zone.
Noah chased him.
Mason cut toward the net.
Noah hooked his stick.
The whistle blew.
Mason turned.
Words were exchanged.
I couldn’t hear them.
I didn’t need to.
Mason shoved Noah.
Noah shoved back.
Gloves dropped.
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
The arena erupted.
They grabbed each other’s jerseys.
Noah threw the first punch.
Mason answered.
Officials rushed in.
The crowd screamed like this was exactly what everyone had paid to see.
I stood frozen.
Not because I had never seen Noah fight.
I had.
But this time was different.
This time I knew what lived underneath it.
Lily.
Guilt.
Years of resentment.
And maybe now me.
That possibility made me feel sick.
The officials separated them.
Mason’s lip was bleeding.
Noah had a cut beneath his eye.
Both were sent to the box.
As Mason skated past my section, our eyes met.
I glared.
His expression said nothing.
For once, he didn’t smile.
Seattle won in overtime.
Noah assisted on the final goal.
The building erupted.
I should have gone straight home.
That was the plan.
Instead, forty minutes after the game, I found myself standing beneath the arena in the corridor near the players’ exit.
I told myself I was waiting for Noah.
Technically, I was.
I was also aware Portland players used the opposite tunnel.
That was coincidence.
Obviously.
Noah texted.
**Media. Twenty minutes.**
I sighed.
“Bennett.”
My entire body reacted.
I turned.
Mason stood at the far end of the corridor.
He had showered and changed into a charcoal suit with no tie.
The cut on his lip was still visible.
He walked toward me.
I crossed my arms.
“That was stupid.”
“Hello to you too.”
“You punched my brother.”